Who can count the raindrops? Somewhere a sum might be Held in those icy regions Up high within that sea A formula of Nature Not tuned to man’s desire That at some prescribed moment Directs what must transpire Irrational, oft seeming, But of some plan no doubt There hidden in the silence Thought must needs do without

“Modern cosmology, and indeed, much of modern physical science, is self-serving. It is not designed to make fundamentally new discoveries, merely to explore the current knowledge base. Even worse, where the assumptions cannot be tested independently of the model (and most of cosmology falls into this category), the assumption becomes law and forms the base for further assumptions. Here’s the thing—if a scientific enquiry is conducted on the basis of an assumed model, and moves towards a result or outcome of that enquiry in a series of progressive logical steps, then clearly, the final result is assumed. The whole process is anchored in an assumed model; therefore the outcome is a subset of that initial assumption. Furthermore, the system reinforces itself.”

Tiredness lies beneath the eyes Behind the zygomatic rise In pools that fill with sleep denied That rises as some inner tide But bring the focus there to bear Of that somehow always aware And oft those waters will recede For slumber then there is no need

Air surges freezing from the east Its chill enhanced by raging wind Still powdered white these leaves, not those And feeling pinched are fingers, toes Bare branches wild thrash toe and fro Of those that sleep but somehow know That winter has us in its grip Allowing not a drop to drip

‘Now wrap up warm,’ I hear her say ‘Before you go outside to play.’ In far off days of carefree joy When Nature watched a little boy While slipping, sliding, compressed white Snow crystals from gloved hands took flight And he of coal eyes, mouth and nose Stood somewhere near in easy pose